End Of A Sword
Saturday. A rebellious morning in that I skipped shaving and taking a bath before taking a bus ride downtown to trade out a server hard drive at the office - ten minutes today to save a day's worth of time on Monday - then catching the same bus back all the way to the Grand Lake theater to buy a paper and have breakfast at the usual cafe an hour or so late. I'm not just thinking outside of the box, my friends, but acting outside of the box, scrambling, as you can see, my weekend morning routine. All of this before the month of August has really even gotten started, all of this in a Catatonic Post-Ironic Age. The excitement is bewildering.
A time when everyone's hunkered down in denial, irony can no longer be differentiated from reality and reality itself is anybody's guess.
So, in other words, you made it up?
In other words I make everything up. What would be the fun, otherwise? Prevarication mixed with a stiff shot of procrastination makes keeping this journal quite bearable. Kills the readership, but I'm pretty comfortable with that, having learned early on the lesson about “no free lunch”. The truth about Santa Claus was more of a shock, but all that passed with puberty. Puberty gets you too scattered to keep track of your current trauma, let alone the earlier stuff.
Saturday is now sliding into evening and my anticipation rises as the subtitled Japanese soaps on channel twenty-six grow close. Yoshitsune is getting ready to leave Kobe to attack the Heike and his various ladies are facing the fact he might get himself hacked to pieces and fail to come back. There's a lot of people in this drama who get themselves hacked into pieces, but that's probably because it's based on historical people who lived at the end of the twelfth century in Japan during a time when it was very easy to find yourself on any given day facing the business end of a sword.